


That's How It Goes

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Thunder and Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody knows that Dean belongs to Cas. Everybody except Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's How It Goes

Everybody knows that Dean belongs to me.

I have seen it in the sneers of my brothers. Heard it in the sighs of my friends in the garrison, the ones that say _you should know better, Castiel_. Seen it in my face when I caught a glimpse over Dean’s shoulder, my eyes burning into the mirror, my lips twisted just so I would not say his name in that way that means _I love you_. 

Everybody knows this. Except Dean.

I understand that Dean has a rather remarkable ability not to see. It’s part of what helped him in Hell, let him hang on for so very long before he finally gave in and picked up Alaistar’s razor. It is part of the reason he survived his upbringing, came through a whole person rather than the caricature that his father’s treatment would have made other men become. It is one way in which he kept his brother safe.

But this has gone beyond self-preservation. Dean has nothing to fear from me, and surely even he of all people has learned that, must know that, by now.

But then, he does have a singular ability to confuse me, to take my expectations and toss them overhand into the sky. 

Usually, this is something that I love about him. His ability to defy expectation.

So, for a long time, I was not sure if there really was a problem with Dean. If it was not me, the one with the wings and the halo, as he might say, that was actually out of line.

Everybody knows that Dean is mine. But everybody’s been wrong before.

So I kept my mouth closed, my thoughts to himself, which was not an entirely new experience. I’d spent millennia without speaking before, though I was not quite ready to commit to that again. Because back then, I had nothing to say, so I was more than content to stay silent.

But with Dean, it felt like the words were crowded against my lips, waiting for just the worst moment in which to escape, to batter themselves against Dean’s ears and wait for what was to come.

That was the worst part.

That hope.

For I was certain that he would say yes to whatever question I asked, whatever request or command came out of my slippery, treacherous mouth.

But I did not trust his motives in saying it. For all that I knew about Dean—the way his shoulders hang when he’s tired, the curve of his jaw when he is furious, the scar on his back that I was certain I had managed to erase—I did not know his heart. What he thought, what he felt. It was—a mystery.

No.

What he thought, what he felt about me. That was the mystery. 

With Sam, he was—he is—so open, so honest without even speaking that it infuriated me, sometimes. I wanted those looks for myself, that press of a thumb against my wrist, that nod of the head that could mean a hundred things but between them only means one. I wanted them, and yet I knew they were not mine for the taking. 

My brothers whispered: _Jealousy_.

My friends said: _No. You can’t_.

I told myself: _Not today_.

**

It was not until after I died at Raphael’s hands, until I blinked back to life with a new shot of air in lungs that are mine, now, that I let myself accept that the day might finally have come.

We are in a college town, one of those places that only really exists between August and May. In the summer, like now, it is almost like Brigadoon: shimmering out of the mountains and appearing only to the very few who remain behind, waiting for the students to return.

It is June, and I do not know why that is important, but it is the word that keeps passing between Dean and the locals that we meet, by way of explanation as to why this building is closed, or this professor is unavailable:

It’s June.

It’s June.

Dean gets tired of hearing it and I trail after him to a bar, an underground space that’s dark and cool against the white bright of the sun. 

The bar itself is wood and worn, names and initials and nonsense pencarved into the face. I trace the letters with my fingers and watch Dean drink.

He is sweating, trails of water over his ears, and his eyes are tired.

He has looked tired a lot lately, though, so I set that aside, for now.

The bartender looks at me and laughs: “Hey, man. I don’t think it’s gonna rain in here.”

A year ago, I would not have known what she meant. What she was implying. But now, I do.

I dump my coat on the stool beside me and watch Dean’s throat work. 

We do not talk.

Dean eyes the bartender, a brunette with low curves and miles of cool, and flirts. Easy, like breathing. Getting her to laugh. Making her duck her head and smile. It is as though I have disappeared, and maybe I have. Sometimes it is hard to tell, with Dean.

But then the girl catches my eye, traces the way that I am looking at Dean, and then I can see it in her face:

She knows. Everybody knows.

Except Dean.

She ducks away to the other end of the bar, burying her arms in glasses, and I watch Dean blink. Surprised.

“Was it something I said?” he asks, not bothering to turn his head.

“No,” I say. “It was not.”

We stay for a while longer, Dean cutting his eyes quick to the girl, and back, still not sure what has happened. And it is not until Dean is reaching for his wallet that I realize how calm I am. How relaxed I feel.

Even as I lift my coat, curl it over my arm, I recognize: today is the day.

It is even hotter outside, now, and the air feels tight and still.

“A storm,” Dean says, peering up at the clouds, green stripes racing over our heads.

He keeps watching the sky nervously as we drive up the town’s main street. He manages to catch every red light and that makes him angry, it seems. He swears and knots his teeth and I say nothing, just ride that wave of certainty in my gut and watch him sweat.

We make it to the room just as the wind kicks up and then there is a crack of thunder that stills Dean’s hand on the doorknob, shakes me down to my bones.

“Jesus!” Dean manages, his fingers twisting the key.

It is the loudest sound that I have heard since I left heaven, the kind that is still echoing in my ears when the next roll comes, when we are safely inside.

It is a strange feeling, one that I am not sure what to do with, and it shakes my calm for a moment.

The rain shoots down in sheets, pounding onto the sidewalk, and the Impala disappears in the maelstrom.

“Goddamn,” Dean says, his elbow brushing mine. We stand at the window and watch for a while, watch the storm throw its fury at the ground again and again.

“I hate storms,” he mutters.

“I know,” I say, and I can feel the look that he gives me: incredulous and annoyed.

But he says nothing. Wanders away to the bathroom and slams the door.

I wait.

Take off my overcoat. My suitcoat. My shirt. My shoes. Fall back onto the bed near the door, and wait.

When Dean emerges, he is clean and cool, shedding water like a dog and reaching for a clean shirt.

“It is not wise to take a shower during a thunderstorm,” I say.

Dean, predictably, rolls his eyes. “That’s an old wives’ tale, Cas.”

“I thought your life was built on such tales.”

He looks over at me, a rejoinder at the ready, and stops. I can feel his eyes pulling over my body, green burning holes in my chest. My hips. My legs.

His face goes pink and he turns away.

 _Interesting_ , I think.

He lets out a sigh, dramatic and childish. As if my being in a state of undress is some sort of personal affront.

“It’s early,” he says, pulling on his jeans. “We should go out and get some food.”

“In the rain?” I say.

“Yes, in the rain. What, are you made of paper now?” he snaps. Not looking. “You gonna melt?”

There’s a bolt of lightning, then, one that looks louder than the thunder and I watch the shiver work its way over his back.

“And what’s with you stretched out like that?” Dean says, shooting his eyes at the bed. Trying to rally. ”So, what? You sleepy all of a sudden?”

“No,” I say. “Would you prefer that I stand?”

I catch his eye, like I have a thousand times, and hold it. 

I see something shift in his face. See his eyes follow the lines of my body, skate down the bed and back, get caught on my lips and then. Oh, then. 

Now, I am certain.

Everybody does know.

Even Dean.

“What?” he splutters, diving for his boots. “No! Jesus, Cas! I don’t care what the fuck you do, man.”

Sometimes, I forget that Dean is a child. 

At others, I cannot help but know it.

“Dean,” I say. “Come here.”

“No!” he says, fumbling for his keys.

“Yes,” I says simply. 

He whips around and stomps over. Parks himself at the foot of the bed, scowling, that pink in his cheeks reaching towards red.

“Here I am!” he barks. “Happy now?”

I sit up, one fluid motion, and rise to my knees. It feels odd. I do. I feel giddy, lungs kicking and heart working like a fist. 

“No,” I say, my fingers over his throat, curling around the edge of his neck. “Not yet.”

Dean makes a sound before our lips even touch, his mouth opening at just the promise of a kiss. His tongue is like lava over my lips, quick and hot and molten, swaying between my teeth.

He reaches out and grabs, his fingers curling into my spine like he’s afraid that I am going to bolt. Or he will.

So I just tip my head back and let him in.

It is a strange feeling, having what I want—what I know is mine—in my hands. It feels fragile, Dean does, and indestructible all at once.

He is babbling nonsense against my mouth and pushing at my shoulders, and when I open my eyes again, he is tucked over me, shirtless, reaching for my skin.

He slides his fingers over my ribs as we kiss, faster and faster, his knuckles knocking bone. His knees hinge against my hips, his own working on instinct, trying desperately to fuck.

I catch the back of his neck and shush him, slow him. Hold his head still and stroke his face. Watch his eyes flutter and his lips move over his moans. Make him wait to be kissed. 

He shivers again and I can feel the tension in his body, tight and still. Like the air before a storm.

His eyes open and I stare back, pour all that I have into my gaze and watch it spill into Dean’s face. Into his smile.

And then I tug on his neck and dig my way into his mouth. Feel myself get frantic and I do not stop. Hear myself groan and I do not try to keep quiet.

I fall back and let Dean do what he will to me, pull the rest of my clothes away and mouth his name into my thighs. 

It’s a gift, that dark head between my legs, those lips whispering over my cock, and I have never felt so goddamn grateful in my entire, ethereal life.

Dean licks me, his tongue like a dagger, and then sucks me down, greedy and loud, and my hips know just what to do with that.

I come in his throat, a flash of lightning in a bottle, and the sound I make drowns out the thunder, makes the window rattle in its pane.

“Jesus,” Dean breathes over my chest. “Jesus, Cas, please, baby—”

He sits up and straddles my thighs, the denim snagging my flesh, everything feeling too bright and too good and too much.

I watch him fumble at his zipper and then my body remembers how to move, lets my hands come up and tangle with his, knock them away and pull until Dean’s cock is in my hand and he is shaking, a sound in his chest like a rattle, a groan.

“Dean,” I hear myself say, though I cannot feel my lips move, can’t feel anything other than what’s in my hands as he fucks into my fist, feverish, his palms digging into my shoulders and his face twisted and hot.

He is panting and begging and grinning down into my face, my eyes, and then he snaps up, arching away even as his hips kick in and he says “Castiel!” as if I am the answer to all of his prayers and comes everywhere, falling over my fingers and flying into my face, and he is beautiful, like that. Breaking apart even as he folds himself back together. Beautiful and fragile and strong.

“Dean,” I breathe.

“Yeah?” he whispers, his hips still sliding up, his grin still dug deep into his cheeks.

“Come here.”

“Bossy, aren’t you?” he smirks, but he's moving, shucking his jeans and then tucking himself into my side.

“You did not seem to object,” I say, my fingers sliding over his ribs. Down to his hip. And back.

“Mmmm,” Dean says, and I can hear the sleep there. Feel it in the give of his mouth against my neck. “Don’t get used to it, dude.”

Everybody knows that Dean belongs to me.

“Took you long enough,” I say, but Dean is already asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Don Henley sang Leonard Cohen to me in the middle of the night, and this was the result.


End file.
